


Loving You's A Bloodsport

by Waynesgrayson



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Dark!Matt, Gore, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Organs, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4626855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waynesgrayson/pseuds/Waynesgrayson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the history books, when people are afraid, they use fire. Foggy wishes that they figured out you can't burn that of which was born in flames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving You's A Bloodsport

**Author's Note:**

> Guys...the amount of love I am getting for these Dark!Matt fics is just so amazing. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Every kudos and comment means everything to me. Thank you for enjoying these so much.
> 
> Whoa, what is this? I posted yesterday and now today? Heck yea! I actually started this right after I posted last night (well...this morning...). I was just hit with it and bam. Here we are.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Title taken from: Bloodsport by Raleigh Ritchie

A woman screams in the distance. The call high-pitched and blood-chilling as it echoes through the night. Though in Hell's Kitchen, it may as well of been nothing more than a bird singing. No one was going to think twice about a scream in the dead of night. Especially if they're tucked away, safe in their homes.

But for those stupid few who are still walking the streets, her scream makes them curl in on themselves and walk a little faster.

Foggy Nelson is among those stupid few and he does hear her scream, and just like everyone else, he doesn't do anything about it. What could he do? Knowing the city as well as he does, chances are she was dead seconds after she screamed, so there was nothing he could do for her anymore. He could only hope that he death was swift and fast. That it was painless and she left this world as peacefully as her situation would allow.

He's a few blocks away from his apartment and he was glad that he would soon be safe. A car drives past him, and he jumps when it honks. He lets out an annoyed sigh, passing by the only flickering lamp post on this street. He looks up at it as he passes, and if he concentrates enough he can hear the faint hum of it. He wonders if the city will ever bother to fix it.

Another block left to go and that's when he feels it. The presence of another person near him. He knows enough now to not look around, to not stop. That the shadow is not anyone's friends no matter how sweet their touches are and how kind their words may be.

So he ignores it and walks a little faster, though he hopes it isn't noticeable. Nothing good ever happens to those who decided to run from the shadow.

But he's heard rumours that there are exceptions. But he doesn't want to believe them. After all, they're just whispers, and one can find themselves in a lot of trouble if they listen. But it's hard to resist temptation when the man they're talking about means more to him then he should.

It's easier to handle when he's told that the man is dangerous and insane. That everything he touches turns to ruin, and that if he ever lays a hand on flesh it rots underneath his touch. Sometimes smoking until it falls to flames. That the man is the original fallen angel, set free onto the world to cause mayhem and destruction. Bound to punish all evil and all those who sin as he sees fit. No sin is too small or forgivable. No one is safe from his unseeing gaze and all seeing judgement.

He doesn't argue when they talk about him. Because they're not wrong. The mans hands are stained with black, poisoning a person with a single touch. Lips that hide teeth made to tear through flesh. Black armour made to hide a body that is made to break.

He doesn't argue.

Not when he's seen horrors people have only heard about through whispers. Hand cupped mouths hissing about how he rips out the hearts of men and eats them because he doesn't have one. How he bathes in the blood of criminals and bad men and cleans himself pure with it. How his eyes are black as coal and able to pierce through the soul.

But they'll never truly know this man they named Devil.

How the hands that are made to kill can be soft and gentle. How they caress and hold with a gentleness that can make him cry. How he can kiss with an insatiable hunger, but is never cruel. How, yes, his eyes have inherited the night, but they are more alive then some of those he's seen out in the daylight.

“Foggy.” that voice sings from somewhere above. It makes Foggy shiver because that same voice is the one that whispers such caring and kind words into his skin. Words of love and devotion. A mouth that bites gently, leaving marks that fade too quickly.

His heart is beating fast. It's been a long time since it's been because of fear. But out the open like they are, Foggy can never be too careful.

But then again, the Devil always plays his own game.

“Oh, _darling_. Please don't ignore me.”

Foggy stops just short of his apartment building. As he takes in a deep breath he turns around. He doesn't see the man, but he knows the man can see him. He doesn't look around, he simply waits for the man to come to him.

He closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath when the man presses up behind him. Wrapping himself around Foggy as he lets his hands roam. Down his chest to his hips, feather light touches that turn into hard, rough grips within seconds. As if they're no longer in the open and are away in the protection of closed doors and shut blinds

He busies his mouth with Foggy's neck. Pressing butterfly kisses into the skin, lightly biting down and the soothing the skin with the coolness of his tongue.

“Tell me.” The Devil says into his ear. The words low and breathless as he starts moving against Foggy. “Tell an old sinner you love him.”

And he does.

Because he does.

\--

Foggy doesn't know why he always thought that blood would always be thick and bright red. That it was the colour of a little girl's lollipop or a teenagers book bag. But seeing it painted across skin changes his mind. It's dark. So dark that it can be confused with black and when it stretches across the skin it's no longer rich in colour, but thin and empty.

He watches with baited breath as the man doesn't remove it. Letting it seep into his skin and dry there. Like some kind of warpaint. Letting his victims leave their own marks on his skin as he reaches into theirs and does the same.

His head clouds and stomach rolls as the man smiles. As vicious and victorious as they say. He reaches inside and pulls out pinks and reds.

_Whites._

He mutters a prayer and he takes those colours and swirls them around his mouth.

\--

In the history books, when people are afraid, they use fire. Foggy wishes that they figured out you can't burn that of which was born in flames.

\--

He's still in a way you would call the breeze still. One moment he's as calm as a spring day. Gentle and kind to nature and skin. And then the next he's as harsh as a winters storm. Winds whipping widely around, burning skin and cutting it open with a practised ease. No thought given.

Foggy sits next to spring and waits for winter. He folds his arms across his chest, hoping that when the storm hits, he'll make it back to spring.

\--

“When you touch me, I feel like I'm burning.” he says as he wraps around Foggy. The night is dead and tonight is devoted to the sounds of pleasure. His eyes are closed, a look of peace resting his features. Foggy worries. The man has more injuries than not, but had managed to convince Foggy that his touch would heal all. Something he had said over and over as they danced together.

“It's a feeling I've never wanted. But now pray for everyday.”

\--

Now he feels the burning. These mean are cruel. They touch with a harshness meant to be felt, with no compassion. And maybe that's why this is so terrifying. He's allowed himself to fall use to dangerous touching him with tenderness. Of being careful and gentle. Of the devil holding his heart in his claws, yet treasuring it with his life.

When hands become too rough, there is no kiss of apology. When blood splatters across his skin there is no tongue to remove it. No talk of God. No talk of forgiveness.

But that is good. Those words are for him.

Sometimes, Foggy finds himself entertaining the ideas those rumours spread. That words were made for his use only. It's something that's so easy to believe. He speaks with an ease and talent that makes Foggy wonder sometimes.

He's scared now. He is shaking and feels oh so lost. He doesn’t know what they want for him or why they have him. Why they as him the questions they do, convinced he has the answers they seek.

It feels like forever, but soon the hurting stops, and so do the questions. He hears their screaming and the sounds their bones are being forced to make, but he doesn't dare watch. Unsure he could keep it together if he watches their fates being given to them.

Then he's being touched in a way that makes it hard to breath. Leather curling his hair around fingers, hands cataloguing every cut and forming bruise.

“Hello, beautiful.” is kissed against his lips.

\--

“I love you.” he says one day without being asked to. Without the rush of pleasuring singing in his veins. They are quiet. Watching over the night as it sits.

“And I love you.” is the response he gets. Part of him wonders how true that statement can be. He's a passionate man, but broken in a way that tells Foggy that he can never truly love another. Only the job given to him by fate.

But that doesn't stop his heart from singing, or himself from smiling every time he hears it.

\--

“Why?”

The Devil doesn't pretend he doesn't understand.

“Because you are what I lack. I am your warrior, and you are my heart.”

\--

One day, he's given a box. It's white and held together with a red bow. He raises an eyebrow in question, and the Devil simply gestures to the box.

“Take off the bow.”

He does, then looks to the Devil again.

“The world tells tales of how I have no heart. They are not wrong. I will never be alive in the way one suspects. But I am living. Take care of it, for it has always belonged to you.” He parts with a kiss. Slow and lingering. It's not a goodbye kiss, but it makes Foggy wonder how long it will be until they see each other again.

With the Devil now out of sight, Foggy's attention is on the box. Slowly he removes the lid, heart pounding in anticipation.

And then it nearly stops at the sight of what's inside.

Morbid curiosity, is what he tells himself when he finds his hand moving to reach inside. His arms feel heavy, as does the rest of him. But he has to know.

Tears fill his eyes as his fingertips touch it. Warm, still beating, and in the low light of street lamps, beautiful.

He picks up the organ and holds it firm in his palm.

The Devil has his heart, and now he has the Devil's.

The exception

                          is him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this was pretty heavy. But I hope you guys enjoyed nonetheless!
> 
> Not beta read.
> 
> http://waynesgrayson.tumblr.com/


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